Most people reacted only casually. They had, after all, seen it before. Still, Percy put down his work momentarily to watch. Arthur's commercial had been shot in an empty studio, the only prop on the set being a stool. Arthur was leaning against it, gazing out at the viewer with that easy familiarity of his.
"Hello," he said pleasantly. "I'm Arthur Penn. I want to be the next mayor of New York City.
Vote for me. Thank you."
The screen then went to black, and Gwen's voice, sounding very sultry, said "Paid for by the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee.' *
Percy smiled and returned to his work. He remembered when Arthur had first presented the script for the commercial to all and sundry. There had been a long moment of skeptical silence, but Arthur had remained firm, despite the swell of subsequent protest and disbelief.
As the primaries had approached, Arthur had studied the commercials of other candidates very carefully. His decision was to try and find a different angle. Once he had eliminated the Meet the People Approach, the Photographed in Front of a Recognizable Monument approach, the Meet My Family Aren't We Wholesome approach, the Hard Hitting Tough Talker approach, and the My Opponent is a Cheating Son-of-a-Bitch approach, that had left him with exactly one option.
"But Arthur," Percy remembered himself complaining. "All that's going to happen is that people will see your commercial and wonder,' Yeah, but why should I vote for him?' "
"Precisely!" Arthur had said delightedly. "The beauty of this commercial is that it's only ten seconds long. So we can afford-what is it called? Saturation, that's it. And we'll get people curious. People like to be tested, to be challenged. Every politician sounds like every other politician. As far as I'm concerned, people are no different now than they were centuries ago. Before you can accomplish anything, you have to get their attention. And frequently the best way to get their attention is to hit them on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper." He grinned. "My entire campaign is directed toward hitting them with that newspaper. To a large extent what I say is irrelevant, as long as it's making people"-he tapped his temple with his forefinger,-"think! No one thinks anymore. Well, my friends, this campaign is not going to lay things out in nice easy packages."
That's for sure, Percy thought to himself. He shook his head. This whole campaign was hardly an easy package. As the treasurer of the Arthur Penn for Mayor Committee, he had his work cut out for him.
Merlin had certainly done his groundwork, paving the way for Arthur's return. That much was certain. An entire fictive history of Arthur being silent partner in a number of wealthy businesses had given credence to Arthur's personal fortune. The actual origin of the fortune was unknown to Percy, although he had a suspicion that if someone happened to stumble over the pot at the end of the rainbow, they might now find it empty. Merlin had a knack for making things happen. That same fictive history had supported Arthur's bid for the mayoralty. Coming from outside of politics, he could claim no prior party obligations. Coming (ostensibly) from a background in business, he could claim that he had a businessman's sense of running things, and that was what New York City needed. Someone who knew how to eliminate waste, to maximize profits. In short, to run New York City like the profit-making center it should and could be.
It all sounded great. Percy just hoped that Arthur could pull it off. And he hoped that no one tumbled wise to the whole setup. Percy wasn't sure, but he had a feeling you could go to jail for being the treasurer of an organization backing a candidate for mayor who had supposedly died over a dozen centuries ago.
Moe Dredd, his middle swathed in a white towel, sat back in the steam room of his favorite health club. He could feel his pores opening, his skin breathing in the healthful mists around him. Sweat beaded his forehead, slicked his back and upper arms. His hands rested comfortably on his lap.
The door to the steam room opened. Moe looked over with half-closed eyes and dimly made out a figure through the steam. "Is that you, Cordoba?" he called out.
There was a pause, and then a voice called back, "No. It's me, Arthur."
Moe shrunk back against the wall as Arthur stepped out of the fog, smiling pleasantly. He wore a towel as well, except that it was wrapped around him like a toga. And it was purple.
"You wouldn't by any chance be referring to Ronnie Cordoba, would you, Moe?" asked Arthur with what sounded like only mild interest. "The old racquetball companion of your leash holder, Bernie Bittberg? You might be interested to know that, with the primary only a month away, old Ronnie has joined my team. Seems he has a flair for public relations and Bernie was attempting to funnel it into the standard channels. So Ronnie came over to us.
We're a good deal more flexible."
He sat down next to Moe and patted him on the back. Moe recoiled from his touch.
"So," said Arthur, "this is our first opportunity to reall) talk. So tell me-how are you doing, you little bastard?"
"Mister, um, Mr. Penn, I don't see-"
Arthur raised a preemptory hand. "Don't. Don't even try to lie to me. It's foolishness. I know who you really are. Honestly, with the perversity with which fate names the players in our little drama, it would be a minor miracle if I didn't know you." He sighed and shook his head. "I thought we'd seen the last of each other on the field of battle, Modred, those many centuries ago. And before you try to protest again, I must re-emphasize that I know who you are, and I know that you know who you are. I have every confidence that my half sister, your mother, discovered you reincarnated in this"-he glanced down,-"less than impressive form."
"Well, I like that," huffed Moe Dredd.
"Just as I," continued Arthur, as if Moe had not said anything, "rediscovered Jenny, and Merlin found Percival."
"Ah, yes," said Moe Dredd disdainfully. "Gwen DeVere, the president of your reelection committee-an appointment that came as no surprise to anyone, I assume."
"Not to anyone who knows Gwen and knows what she's capable of."
Moe wiped the sweat from his eyebrows as they began to drip into his eyes. "That's not half as funny as putting an alcoholic in as your treasurer."
"Percy is not an alcoholic anymore," said Arthur evenly.
"Once a drunk, always a drunk," said Moe. "Even a drunk will tell you that."
"Perhaps. But I'm willing to give people a chance, despite their character flaws. Just as I'm willing to give you a chance."
"What?"
"You may not recall, Modred, but on that last day, when I received the wound that nearly killed me-and indeed, the day you were killed-you claimed you were willing to make a peaceful settlement with me. Suddenly, at the last moment, a poison adder appeared from nowhere and laid me low. My men, not seeing the snake, thought you had betrayed me, so they attacked. And that was the finish of us all."
He leaned toward Moe. "The thing I've always puzzled over, and the thing to which I doubt I'll ever get an answer, is my question of whether you arranged for that poisoned snake yourself, or whether you were actually willing to negotiate for peace. On that basis, Modred, my reincarnated bastard son, I offer you a place within my organization. Because I want to be able to trust you.'*
Modred stared at him. Then he stood, said, "I'm sorry, I can't. I just can't," and left quickly.
Arthur could have gone after him. If he had, things might have turned out differently. If he had, he might have actually become allies with Modred, instead of ending up facing his son in battle several months later. But he didn't. He let Modred go, electing to stare into the steam, and so the future was allowed to run its course, which was remarkably similar to the past.
Gwen stood in front of the door to her former apartment, listening carefully for some sound of movement. There was none.